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Remember Dutch Ovens?

"The Dutch Oven" is what we called our blog way back when. We had writer friends submit stories, or the comedic equivalent of editorials, and we'd put them on the site and no one really read them but our parents and the die hards like Colin and Nick W. Well I've got a special treat for you...

Eight Dutch Oven articles.

Some old, some new. All Dutch Oven. I'm literally just going to copy and paste from my Word, they're so good.


By Michael Gesele

If you have a couple of hours to kill on a Saturday afternoon, and you haven't the money to spend on a ticket to see the traveling freak show that's come to town (let's be honest, we all love to gawk at the freaks, but ticket prices these days are astonishingly high!), well, my friend, I've discovered a reasonable substitute for you. For just two American dollars, you can purchase for yourself a ride on the E train, the absolute bottom of the New York City Subway System’s barrel, and see a veritable parade of freaks and mutants, the quality of which rivals only those found dining in the food court of a suburban Target Store. Why, you'll have hours of fun staring in wonderment at all the cruelty that Mother Nature can dole out, all the while fearing for your life and anticipating the inevitable stab wound that’s sure to accompany this trip. For those thrill seekers in the crowd, the train continues to run well after the midnight hour!
Not long ago, and I'm not even sure how it happened, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of being a passenger on a late-night E train. Clearly, it was the train that time forgot, as there were only a few passengers, and only one poster remained hanging on the wall…it was an ad for Prince's "Emancipation" album. Let me put this in perspective for those of you who, like me, stopped following Prince’s career after the "Diamonds and Pearls" album, when he was still with the NPG (that's the New Power Generation, kids)…although there were a few songs from the subsequent “Gold Experience” album that were pretty rockin. I can tell you, after much tireless research, “Emancipation” was released in 1996. THE POSTER I WAS STARING AT TO AVOID EYE CONTACT WITH THE CRAZIES WAS A DECADE OLD.
After three or four stops, I grew tired of staring at the poster. By this point in history, Prince had changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol that stood for androgyny, and had taken to writing the word “Slave” across his face. It was a lot of emotional baggage to handle at this time of night. I let my eyes wander to size up my potential attackers.
I discovered a woman sitting across from me who was holding what I’m hoping was her own baby. I was surprised because it was past midnight, and that kid should have been in bed hours earlier. But more importantly, it should have been outfitted in a ski mask or brown paper bag (not plastic, that would be sick). This was without question, the ugliest child I had ever seen in my life. My mood changed instantly. My fear subsided, and I was overtaken by a flood of sadness. An ugly baby? Is that even possible? Aren’t all babies cute? The answer is no. I had proof that there’s at least one ugly baby in the world, and I’m sure there are more.
People see a baby, and instantly they fawn over it. “Oh, isn’t she adorable?” “Someday, he’ll be president.” Genuine words of praise and encouragement are directed towards the beauty, innocence and potential found in a new life. How do you fake that when you’re forced coo over the bassinet of a troll? “Well, things could be worse.” There’s nothing you can do. Pretend the kid’s as cute as most babies, and when nobody’s looking, throw up into your coat pocket. The ugly baby on the train seemed to be as happy as any baby, but it didn’t know that someday, society would judge it based on its looks, as well it should. This kid didn’t stand a chance.
The train pulled into my stop, and I exited, having escaped an attack, but still simultaneously fascinated and saddened by this child…and the idea that there was such a thing as an ugly baby.
I decided then and there upon the new philosophy that would govern my life: there is nothing sadder than an ugly baby. Think about it, seeing an ugly baby can just ruin an otherwise pretty good day.
Sadly, philosophies are meant to be disproved, and my new philosophy was no exception. Over the next few days, the universe provided for me several encounters with things that saddened me even deeper than an ugly baby.
Here’s what I found. Join me in the sadness, won’t you?

UGLY TWINS: Twice as sad as an ugly baby. And if they happen to be identical twins, it’s even sadder…two little bastards running around with the same unfortunate face.

AN UGLY FAMILY: Seeing this angered me as much as it saddened me. I encountered two human beings, both equally unattractive, who willingly spawned. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled that they found each other, and spared the rest of humanity the chance of having to marry either one of them…in fact, seeing an ugly couple makes me quite happy…they’re happy, and no one else has to deal with them. But, come on. I’m sure they own a mirror. What would possess them to perpetuate their gene pool and give the world another generation of ugly children? And the couple I saw had THREE kids. That means that when it comes time for them to marry, there had better be another three ugly people to marry them. And I pray that they’ll adopt.

CHILDREN WHO LOOK LIKE ADULTS: There are some people who have looked the same all their lives. And I’m not talking about an adult with a “baby face.” I mean a kid who doesn’t look right till they’re 50. When you see their baby pictures, and they’re identical to the way they look as an adult, it’s just weird. A four year old with the furrowed brow of a middle-aged high school math teacher is disconcerting to say the least.

THE GREEN GROCER: Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s a noble profession. But I have a problem with a guy with a 1970s haircut and a handlebar moustache wearing a red polyester jacket with the name “Hal” embroidered in gold thread, who absentmindedly smiles as he polishes the apples and re-arranges the grapes in a grocery store as if anybody gives a shit.

TRAFFIC COPS: Nothing against cops in general. I just feel bad for people who have to direct traffic. I’m sure as they were growing up watching the reruns of Dragnet that inspired them to join the police, they weren’t thinking to themselves, “I want to spend my day screaming at bus drivers who don’t know that you can’t turn on red.” Also, let’s be honest. The need for this specific position was rendered unnecessary by the invention of electricity.

REALLY BAD IMPROV AND/OR STANDUP COMEDIANS…THE ONES WHO MAKE THE AUDIENCE UNCOMFORTABLE: You’re a jackass. Nobody likes you and you’re family is ashamed of you. Get off the stage. Go back to the office water cooler and make insightful comments on three-month-old celebrity gossip and political scandals. Don’t be encouraged by the laughs you’re getting…they’re not WITH you.

STREET PERFORMERS COMMISSIONED BY THE CITY TO PERFORM IN TRAIN STATIONS: Fucking sellouts. If you’re going to sell out on the whole bohemian thing and get a banner with your name on it, at least get a legitimate venue.

SUBWAY MUSICIANS WHO ARE DRESSED NICER THAN ME: How much money can you possibly make playing “Glowworm” day after day on a rusty, dented saxophone? What the hell am I doing wrong?

THE LADY ON THE STREET SELLING BOOTLEG DVDS WITH HER CHILD NEXT TO HER IN A STROLLER: My only hope that she doesn’t bring the kid along on her daily bank heists or car-jackings or when she has to swallow a condom filled with cocaine for smuggling purposes. Is daycare completely out of the question when you’re living a life of crime?

WOMEN WITH BOTCHED FACIAL SURGERY AND/OR BAD EYEBROW WAXING: Nobody should look surprised all the time. Unless they’re a moron. And they probably are.

MEN WHO WAX THEIR EYEBROWS: It’s never going to look natural. It’s sad that you think it does. Succumb to the unibrow. (Drag Queens excluded).

PEOPLE WHO THINK THEIR JOB ACTUALLY MATTERS: Perhaps I’m a “big picture” person, but you know what’s going to happen if you forget to send that fax? Nothing.

ACTORS IN TELEVISION COMMERCIALS WHO “COMMIT” TOO MUCH TO THE SCRIPT: I realize that your parents had to mortgage their mobile home for a fourth time in order to pay for your acting classes, but don’t try so hard. You’re not playing Lady Macbeth. You’re selling mattresses. They’re always on sale, and everyone needs a place to sleep. It’s not a hard sell.

PHOTOGRAPHS HANGING ON THE WALL OF A HAIR SALON: Identical photos were issued to every barbershop and hair salon three times: in 1967, in 1973 and again in 1984. Prior to 1967, everybody looked the same. Women had two choices…they would walk into their salon and say “Give me the Ethel Mertz,” or “That Girl, please.” Men would simply say, “Haircut.” Unfortunately, Lee Harvey Oswald ruined that look for everybody. That’s when they decided to issue the photos…it took four years to get them right, and then they finally issued the ’67 editions. They were updated in ’73 and ’84. And never again. But some combination of the three groups continues to hang in every barber shop in the world. Maybe it’s not the photos themselves that make me sad. I think it’s the idea of someone walking in, pointing to one of the pictures and saying “Make me look like that!”

PEOPLE WHO INSIST ON BEING CALLED BY A NICKNAME: Nicknames are an organic thing that come out of an experience or a relationship. People who know you well give you nicknames. To insist that a stranger calls you by a nickname that you’ve had forever is just sad because (1) they will probably never know your real name, and (2) you probably made up the nickname yourself. It’s a forced familiarity that comes from a great insecurity and need for attention. You’re begging people to ask you, “Where did that name come from? I bet it’s a fascinating story!” And then you have to make up a story about friends you never had giving you that name because of something “crazy” you never did during a trip you were never invited on. I usually insist on inventing my own nickname for these people. I’ll declare, “I hereby dub thee ‘Dickhead.’” Then I walk away and never speak to them again.

Abortion: Laugh With Me, Won't You?
By Ed Flynn

Hate kids? Me too. There’s nothing worse than having to take that weekly break from the ol’ methlab just to fill junior’s bowl with a little more blended PBR and SPAM. I’m sure it’s a hassle. Kinda like adoption. So much easier to just wait and let Social Services do the paperwork for you. Oh, I suppose you’d assume there were other options. Planned Parenthood? Not if you live in South Dakota.
You see, earlier this month South Dakota enacted a law banning all abortions of pregnancies where the mother’s life is not at risk. Even those that are a result of incest and rape are protected from termination.
In a related story, mustached uncles across the state have been spotted purchasing minivans stocked with diapers and coloring books. Also, NASCAR is expecting a steady increase in ratings, and the state’s motto has been changed from, “Under God People Rule,” to, “Don’t Tell Her Your Real Name.”
As Gov. Mike Rounds signed the legislation he was heard to remark, "In the history of the world, the true test of a civilization is how well people treat the most vulnerable and most helpless in their society. The sponsors and supporters of this bill believe that abortion is wrong because unborn children are the most vulnerable and most helpless persons in our society. I agree with them.”
I disagree. It is my belief that the true test of a civilization is not in how it embraces the weakest members of its society, but rather how it holds them up to ridicule and mockery. Any idea what I’m talking about?
You guessed right! Of course I’m talking about dead baby jokes. The backbone of any productive day at the office, a good dead baby joke can leave one feeling refreshed and energized. It’s like a Sierra Mist. A really crude, dirty Sierra Mist that instantly fills one with regret. Here are some of my favorites:

How do you make a dead baby float?
Take your foot off of its head.

How do you get 100 babies into a bucket?
With a blender!

How do you get them out again?
With tortilla chips!!!

(And finally, the first joke I ever learned, taught to me at the age of six by my grandfather)

What's the difference between a Cadillac and a pile of dead babies?
I don't have a Cadillac in my garage

MmMm. There’s no taste quite like bad taste. So laugh with me won’t you?
Ballroom Dancing
by Tyler & Ethan

Tyler: I just witnessed an actual collegiate ballroom dancing competition. I've never laughed so hard, but hurt inside on behalf of other people. Maybe you remember our days in college. You know, we were losers much like we are now, but at least when we drank beers it was with other people. But that's the kind of stuff we did. We drank, went to bars, didn't talk to chicks and came home. These people TRAVEL to dancing competitions. There were team jackets and everything. Every one of them had the "I'm way to happy to be dancing" face on. It borders on creepy and semi-psychotic.

Ethan: Strangely enough there is a scientifically proven way to get that “happy dance” face off of all the girls involved in ballroom dancing and it’s a very quick process. Have sex with me. That look of crazed happiness turns into horror and confusion quicker than it takes Paris Hilton to put out her next sex tape. You’re also wrong about me not talking to chicks in college. One time I didn’t show up for class and I had to go talk to the professor and she was a girl.

Tyler: What if you had the chance to score with one of the ballroom dancing chicks? Would you? I mean could you even get "ready" knowing that she chooses to spend her weekends traveling to upstate NY to dance?

Ethan: Why are you even asking that question? I wouldn’t have a chance to have sex with the 900 lb. woman they have to cut the side of the house away for in order to get her to the hospital. In the spirit of the discussion however, I’m gonna say I would. No one has ever starting off smiling like that at me and I think it would be good for my self-esteem. It would be nice to have someone smile at me for once. Then when they left, I’d give them a card that said “In two weeks that burning you’re gonna feel, isn’t an eternal flame.” (For those who don’t realize it, that’s a Bangles joke from their song Eternal Flame. If you don’t know one of the greatest songs ever, kill yourself.) I think that’s the polite thing to do.

Tyler: Yeah... that is the polite thing to do. Would you have pre-printed cards, like business cards or would it be like a greeting card type thing or would you just scribble that on a piece of scrap paper? By the way... Is it weird that I had a crush on the Bangles when I was a kid and now I have a suspicion that they were lesbians?

Ethan: Come on, I’m not preprinting anything, if someone is stupid or drugged up enough to agree to marry me, I think scrap paper will do just fine for the invitations. Scrap paper is more than formal enough for that sort of message. As for as the crush goes, I only remember the fat one who got the surgery where they remove your stomach, but is still fat and the blonde one married to one of the Baldwin brothers. Knowing nothing and remembering nothing about the third member…she’s probably a lesbian and therefore warrants a crush on your behalf.

Tyler: I think you're getting The Bangles confused with either Wilson or Phillips of Wilson Phillips.

Ethan: I certainly am. I’m not what they call “classically smart.”
An Informative Article: We're All Gonna Die
By Sara Heinze

Man, if there is one thing I didn’t ask for this past holiday season it was bird flu. I had plenty of time to catch up on my bird flu facts, but, still, the world is apparently ending and I am glued to the tube waiting for bird flu bomb to drop, go figure. You were probably out seeing the seven wonders of the world buying prostitutes and fulfilling any other “before I die...” wishes you have so I thought I’d give you the facts about how we’re all going to die a horrible bird flu death.

So the deal is ducks and chickens are getting this “flu” that makes them sick and die. No big deal right? Mad cow, blah, blah, blah, and all the vegans were having a laugh at our expense… and then it passed, right? Oh no, friends! If you happen to be the unlucky fuck that’s got to clean the 900 chicken coups on some farm in China you’re SCREWED! Unlucky fuck touches enough bird shit? BAM! Bird flu.

At first I was like, “Phew, dodged a bullet, I don’t touch bird shit.” But then I found out the whole bird flu thing is supposedly at some point the strain will mutate and be able to pass from human to human. LAME! But wait. Then I found out its only really being found in Asia at this point so I was like “SCORE, I am afraid of Planes and Asians, no bird flu for me!” Then CNN told me that the more sad fucks that get bird flu the more likely it is that humans will become the “mixing vessel” for some sort of mutant bird flu virus. Damn.

So is there anyway we can all avoid a horrible bird flu death? Not really. Apparently every century there are about four flu disasters that kill millions of people. WHY DIDN’T THEY PREPARE US FOR THIS SHIT IN SCHOOL? Maybe they did, in 1997 (I probably missed the memo because I was super into the Spice Girls and a boy named Kevin). There was bird flu-type-thing in Hong Kong that was quelled only by the killing of the entire poultry population. I bet P.E.T.A. was so pissed. Anyway, basically, the experts say the bird flu is coming. And we’re all going to die.

Our only out is an anti viral drug, which is super expensive and the government has already said they don’ t have enough and can’t possibly make enough. This is all sounding eerily similar to Tomb Raider 2 when the dude wants to open Pandora’s box because he’s the only one who’s got the antidote to whatever’s in the box. I smell conspiracy. Conspiracy or no, bird flu’s-a-coming so buy your prostitutes now and make your peace with Jesus cause WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE! But, hey look on the bright side of things. At least we can all die with the knowledge that Pat Robertson was wrong. Gays weren't the
downfall of society. Birds were.
"Where My Ho's At?"
By Michael Gesele

The problem with living in any large city with an international reputation and a larger-than-healthy tourism industry is that in a relatively short period of time, you become, as I’m told the kids say, “soooo over” everything. Living and working in New York, on a daily basis I come face to face with the institutions that leave mobs of tourists standing stunned, their heads tilted skyward as if in silent prayer to the god of cinderblocks, their mouths agape with a puddle of drool forming at their feet, all the while blocking sidewalk traffic for miles and miles. I pay the Empire State Building as much attention as one would pay an Arby’s on the corner of Main Street in good ol’ Anytown, U.S.A.
Maybe I’m jaded, but whatever. It’s there. I know it’s there. I live here and I can visit the damn thing anytime I want to. I just haven’t wanted to for a very long time. Don’t judge me. How often do you go to the Arby’s?
Every so often, however, things can fall into perspective. I experience a brief moment of lucidity sometimes when I’m traveling home at night on the subway to Queens. As the train emerges from beneath the East River and ascends the elevated tracks, I forget about the non-descript stench of the N train, and do not hear the P.A. system crackling with the voice of an irate conductor with marginal English skills or the accordion-playing blind man begging for donations. I see thorough the filthy windows the New York City skyline, the buildings darkened as a bright orange sun sets behind it, the sparkling lights from windows tracing the outline of each structure, and the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building towering above everything else, stating to the world in an understated but confident tone, “I fucking rule.” The moment takes you by surprise, a jaded New Yorker beholding the majesty of the city. I take it all in…being a part of this city…and find myself thinking as I stare at the multi-colored lights atop the Empire State Building, (again, only for a moment), just how beautiful and impressive it is…but how I couldn’t possibly fathom shelling out eight bucks for a ticket to take a series of elevators up to the Observation Deck just to look through a pair of high-powered binoculars across the river at a bunch of assholes on a stalled N train feigning profound thoughts as a way to pass the time until the subway starts moving again. Strains of “Guadalajara” coming from the blind man’s accordion force their way past my headphones and leak into my thoughts, and the moment is over. The bitterness returns, and all is right.
It was during one of these mass-transit philosophy sessions that I found myself thinking about another fabled New York City institution. My eyes wandered from the graffiti-covered window (which, by way of scratched letters upon the Plexiglas, announced matter-of-factly that Jim was indeed, at some point in time, there) and stumbled upon a lovely lady in a white dress sitting on the bench in front of me. She had a friend sitting next to her, reading a magazine, but the two did not speak, most likely because the woman in the white dress seemed incapable of speech, at least at the moment.
I looked her up and down and tried to figure out what her deal was. There was something about her, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. What made her stick out more than the rest of the schmucks on the train, even more than her plain-and-tall friend vigorously reading a back issue of Us Weekly?
Tight white dress, knee-high white leather boots, and ten-foot tall hair dripping with Aqua-Net. A blank expression from some sort of sedative, press-on finger nails longer than hell, bright red lipstick. My God, this woman was a whore.
Alright, maybe she wasn’t a whore. She was pretty in an overly made-up kind of way, and she had a sweet face, so I couldn’t possibly imagine her taking twenty bucks, a pack of cigs and some homemade crystal to do an entire frat house at once. Wait…I just did.
In fairness, it was a Friday night, and she might have been going out with friends for a fancy dinner or a book club discussion, and that was her idea of dressing up. Maybe her house was on fire when she got dressed, or someone stole her mirror. Or maybe she broke her mirror and the bad luck with which she was punished was to dress like that for seven years.
Assuming she didn’t actually exchange her body for goods and services, it brings up a larger problem in my life in New York. All the myths and tales I heard of the City prior to living in it indicated there’d be a hooker on every corner, a drug dealer in my hallway and the music of a drive-by shooting playing through the night.
Why the hell have I never seen a damn hooker? I’ve even gone to the places they supposedly frequent. 42nd Street and Times Square are now occupied by the very tourists I’m trying to avoid, awestruck by the splendor of Planet Hollywood. I’ve been to the Village, I’ve been to the Bronx. Every place on every HBO documentary about pimps, whores, drugs and violence showed me where to look, and look I have. No hos in NoHo. Believe me, I’ve checked.
This is not to say I’m looking to rent her services for myself, my friends or my loved ones. But like the Empire State Building, it’d be comforting to know she’s there. Just to see the occasional whore and say, hey, I’m in New York. Sadly, ‘tis nary a whore anywhere in this now tourist-friendly city.
So, I stare at this woman in the ill-fitting pleather dress who unknowingly stares back at me in a downer-induced haze, accepting that she’s just got really bad taste, and is not a whore…probably. And I reflect on the fact that apparently all the whores are in hiding, and I’ll most likely never see one. But I look through her hair out the window, and I see the skyline, and take comfort in knowing that some of this City’s institutions and folklore remain intact. And, as long as I have digital cable, hookers will always have a home in New York City.
by Tyler & Ethan

Ethan: Because I look at the Internet all day and because of the simple fact that I have no social life, even people in chat rooms won’t talk to me, it’s come to my attention that the winter Olympics will be taking place in February and when I think Olympics, only one word comes to mind…“Singlets.” Don’t get me wrong I love a good singlet just like the rest of the people of the world, but I’m concerned that we’re only one Greco-Roman wrestling move or slow methodical rubbing of legs during a lengthy speed skating race from an embarrassing arousal on televisions around the globe. I’m willing to accept the argument that the tight fitting skin suit is needed for less wind drag in skiing and speed skating, but I’m bewildered by the necessity for such an outfit in the world of wrestling.

Tyler: I don’t know what the big deal about wearing singlets is. I mean, if that’s what they want to wear, who are we to knock it? My only request is that if the competitors are going to wear singlets or bodysuits, I think all coaches; managers or attendees should be required to wear the same. Take a page out of baseball’s book. Joe Torre wears the full Yankees uniform and the most action he sees is picking his nose every half inning. If all coaches and the like have to wear skin-tight singlets, then we’ll see how committed the sport is to its silly uniforms.

Ethan: Forget silly uniforms, if they want to be true to a sport from hundreds of years ago, why not just do it naked? Old school is in these days, everything’s retro. Wrestling should follow suit. I mean I know it’s popular in Iowa and who doesn’t want to be popular there, but they might want to branch out to some other states where people actually live. If they went naked no one would be confused as to why to men would grab each others crotches in order to score points for a shiny metal. Not to mention the fact that it would be the highest attended event at the Olympics by fans of “Queer as Folk” and all their female friends they go shopping with.

Tyler: Can I tell you a secret?

Ethan: I guess.

Tyler: I just wrote that stuff cause we were making fun of singlets, but I kinda like them… I’m wearing one right now.

Ethan: What color:

Tyler: Red.

Ethan: Doesn’t your mom have one like that?

Tyler: We share clothes.

Ethan: Awkward.

**If you're the writer of the below no-name articles shoot us an email:**

My name is Jek Porkins, and I have a weight problem.

Most of you know me only as “the fat pilot” whose X-Wing fighter was the only one destroyed by the Death Star’s lumbering, ineffective turret defenses as depicted in Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. What they didn’t show was that my escape pod was able to jettison in time to spare me from what many of you thought was my quick, luminous fate. And that is where my story begins

I landed on the planet of Lipo, a world where one is accepted for whom they are on the inside regardless of their shape or size – and I was happy to see that many of the natives shared my love of intergalactic delectables ☺. Upon landing, I was taken to meet the leader of Lipo, Count Ponch. He showed me the ways of the Lipese – their peaceful nature, relaxed way of life, and casual attitude toward outward appearance. His daughter, the enchanting Princess Karba, showed me that inner beauty was possible no matter what was showing on the outside. Under the gleam of Lipo’s twin moons she held my hand and touched my inner being in a way that nothing, not even the Force, ever had. It was here that I learned to love me for who I am, and to face the ugly truth of the Rebel Alliance: they are weight-ists.

For too long I stood by as I suffered their casual slings and barbs, thinking I deserved it: the too small uniform that exaggerated my girth, assigning me an astro-mech droid by the name of UC-I8. My call sign in that fateful assault on the Death Star, Red Six, is the nickname of a popular weight-loss drug (which has limited results, I might add). You think that was an accident? Even my assignment to the X-wing squadron was setting me up for humiliation. The Rebel Alliance, especially in its early days, prided itself on being quick and agile. Having no hope of outlasting Imperial cruisers cannon for cannon, our strategic tactic of choice was the hit & run – swift attacks that would catch the bulky star destroyers of the Empire off kilter. X-wings were the cream of the Alliance fleet: the perfect combination of the A-wing’s speed, B-wing’s sturdiness, and the Y-wing’s superior targeting system. I was honored to be chosen to fly one of these beauties, and proud that my piloting skills were being recognized, but soon found myself the butt of many a joke. Any slight malfunction on my craft was dismissed as the ship “havin' to haul a wide load”. Any training exercise was occasion to make a sniping comment: “You’re making yourself too big a target, Porkins”, “Shoot that TIE fighter like it was a tumbler of BBQ sauce, Porkins”. (And for the record, I kept my ship clean and up to regulation - the chicken wing bones that the maintenance crew found were not mine, blast it! I always suspected a plant, especially when the photographer from the Alderaan Post-Intelligencier just “happened” to be right there when they were discovered.)

My time on Lipo has given me better perspective on these difficult times in my life. I no longer harbor any grudges against my old comrades, but rather pity their ignorance. If I may say so, their attitude cost them one fine starfighter, and these days I am more than content to pilot Softee the Swirl’s Iced Cream freighter far from the theater of combat.

As the release of Revenge of the Sith on dvd is celbrated, I wish the Rebel Alliance well in their struggle against the Galactic Empire. At their core, they are a kind hearted organization that can truly bring improvements to the universe (my experiences as a conscript in the Imperial Navy are for another time). However, they would do well to look at the diversity they have created - from Yoda to Chewbacca to Admiral Akbar - and ask themselves if they are truly representing the entire galaxy, or if their priorities have become so askew that celluloid trumps cellulite.
So a couple weeks back I was eating dinner watching ABC news. And this segment on the UCW (Ultimate Christian Wrestling League) comes on.
Now, I’ve heard of some stupid things churches have done to get people to come in, but this takes the cake.
Like once, I went this Fear Factor style contest a local church was having. The contestants had to eat excess amounts of gross shit that I bet some 8 year old made in their after school program. (I guess they haven’t gotten to the part about gluttony.)
But back to our main focus.
This UCW is quite frankly the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of.
Ok first the “villains” of UCW all resemble 1 of the 7 deadly sins. But what makes it so good is that to make these “villains” more villainous they are all “flamboyant’ or homosexers. The pastor says that the only way he can get people to come to his church is if he has the UCW. Why? Because, he’s a fucking joke. I mean come on! A fucking Christian Wrestling League!
So how did this ridiculous thing start? In a dream of a man named Rob.
He says after spending years on the road with a real wrestling league he got tired of all the sex, drugs, and rock and roll, and because he’s a pussy.
In one match it was a story taken out of the book of revelations. God and Jesus judge the main characters and only one goes to heaven. What a bummer.
The best part of the whole thing is the idiots that follow the UCW.
“I never used to believe in God and his miracles, but now I have lots of reasons to believe in his miracles”, said a 300 pound 12 year old. Which I’m not surprised by, because these people are all hicks out of Deliverance.
“God says it's ok to have sex with your 3rd cousin.”
The wrestling league is converting many people according to the pastor. But just let me say this, if you need a wrestling match to make you believe in a religion, you probably are a hick.

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